


Whatever It Takes

by papergardener



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: All hurt no comfort, Angst, Arsenic Poisoning, Buried Alive, Dark, Ernesto why are you so terrible, Héctor deserved better, Missing Scene, Post-Betrayal, complex villain, robbing from the dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 17:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16686106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papergardener/pseuds/papergardener
Summary: When Héctor collapsed in the street, he didn’t die right away, and Ernesto needs to bury the evidence. The dirt on his shaking hands was proof that he would do anything to seize his moment.No matter the cost.





	Whatever It Takes

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Major Character Death, buried alive, poisoning  
> I don't know why I wrote this but it's written so... might as well share!  
> In case anyone needs a reminder that Ernesto is the worst.

 

The train pulled away from the station with mechanical gulping noises that faded into the distance, leaving behind only an empty, silent street.

Ernesto was alone with just a beautiful guitar and an open suitcase at his feet.

And a corpse.

It was over. Too late to go back. He had done what he had to, and he held the reward in his hands. Héctor’s songbook that would make him famous, his key to unlocking all that they could have become. They could have done it together if Héctor hadn’t been so weak.

A faint noise from the street over made Ernesto jump, clapping the small red book shut and tucking it into his jacket, gazing around for anyone to stumble out of the shadows. But there was no one, not even a street dog. He looked down, and a shiver of revulsion swept through him at the sight of the body. Maybe he could say he had had too much to drink and died of that. No one would question it, and no one knew him. Ernesto bent down to flip him over—he should have some money somewhere on him—and immediately jerked back.

He was still warm. Too warm. When he brought his finger to his neck he found his pulse still beating.

He wasn’t dead.

Ernesto straightened and silently worked his jaw. Despite the cool night, he felt a fresh chill as sweat beaded on his upper lip. Why wasn’t he dead? What if he woke up?

Shit...  _ Shit! _

Except… maybe Héctor would wake up and it be okay. What if Ernesto hadn’t actually killed him? Maybe it wasn’t too late still to fix things and they could figure something. Maybe… no.

No, he’d already tried to reason with Héctor. This was the only way. Besides, it was too late. He was dying and soon he would be dead. It was far too late to turn back.

He had to get him off the street before anyone saw and started asking questions. Distantly aware of his own quick-beating heart in his throat, he tried to pick Héctor up and found himself struggling under the not-yet-dead weight of him. His sweat-slick hands didn’t help, or his shaking legs. As he grunted and strained under the weight, he feared what would happen if he couldn’t move him. 

If anyone looked out their window that moment…

But so what? It would be fine, he told himself. Even if anyone saw him, he would just say his friend had too much to drink and he was helping him. Right. No one would question that. The thought settled his heart and he managed to grab his arms and drag him to a dark space between two buildings. There he tried to prop him against a wall and utterly failed, to his incredible frustration.

The body was too limp, too damn heavy, and completely uncooperative. Ernesto had hoped to set him up as if merely sleeping, but in the end he only let the body lay sprawled out in the deep shadow of the building, as he stood over him, gasping and glaring.

It’d be easier if he could  _ just die already _ . What was one more corpse on the street? No one would care. Some drunkard from who knows where. No one would think to track him…

Oh, right. He almost hadn’t thought of identification. Quickly he dug through Héctor’s pockets and the inner lining of his jacket, finding a small pouch with money, a couple of guitar picks,  and… there. Of course.

From his jacket Ernesto withdrew a letter addressed to Imelda, already sealed and only missing a stamp. If that had been found then everything would have unraveled. Especially knowing that horrible, suspicious woman. She wouldn’t just accept his death, and even though she would never be able to prove anything—he’d be sure of that—she would certainly demand Héctor’s things. Including his guitar. And his songbook.

Glancing around he slipped the letter into his pants pocket—knowing Héctor, there was probably some money inside as well. That done, he walked back to the street, still quiet and clear. He clicked the suitcase closed and picked up the guitar case. No one saw him leave. Or if they did, they made no notice. It was all rather easy.

Yet as he left he thought he heard a faint whisper, and turned quickly around, staring to where he knew the body lay. It was probably just the breeze. It was only his imagination that he had heard Héctor’s voice calling his name. Pleading. He gulped and tightened his grip before walking away.

Nothing else happened as Ernesto went back to their small, shared room, only once passing another man and they nodded to each other, that was all. Once inside a great relief came over him, even as he closed and double-locked the door behind him before sinking down onto his bed that groaned in the silence. It was a strangely uncomfortable sound.

He was alone.

Despite the cool night, he found he was sweating terribly. He loosened the red bow at his neck and tossed it beside him, and then undid the topmost buttons of his shirt. It only helped a little. His heart still stomped against his ribs, sweat trickling down his back and clinging to his shirt. He made to take off the jacket when he felt the new weight against his heart, and it made him pause. Slowly, his gaze locked on a far point of the room, he pulled out the songbook, the leather soft and warm in his hand.

He kept his eyes staring straight ahead, unseeing, as he merely held it in his lap, feeling the weight of it. Then his eyes lowered and for a terrible, fleeting moment it all seemed so stupid and meaningless; it was so,  _ so _ terrible and light in his hands. It wasn’t worth the weight of a life.

The moment passed, and then he smiled, opening it up and seeing the words—Héctor’s cheerful handwriting—that he knew could bring him fame and the life he had always dreamed of. He had his songs, now.

He also had the guitar.

The case lay beside him on the bed and he ran a hand over it before clicking it open to gaze at the gleaming white lacquer. People would surely notice him if he played on such a fine, beautiful instrument. With this he could really do it, even without Héctor.

His thumb brushed lightly over a string, the note hovering in the quiet of the room. It had been a wedding present from his wife—Ernesto remembered his face when he had first been given it—but she wouldn’t have any use for it now. His wife had never been a musician like them; she could never understand.

If she asked perhaps Ernesto could tell her that Héctor had given it to him. A present, even. In honor of their deep bond of friendship. Or Héctor had sold it to him for a train ticket to leave town. That sounded good.

Suddenly restless, he stood and went to the little table by the door where they had stood not an hour earlier. Ernesto picked up the bottle and shook it a little, watching the amber liquid slosh about. He glanced at the two empty glasses, one of them a murder weapon, and instead took a drink straight. It was revolting, and he slammed the bottle down, glaring at it before forcing his hand to relax and let go.

Fine. So it might be a little while before he could enjoy tequila again. That was nothing to him, and he hastily re-corked it.

Perhaps he should pack, he wondered as he fiddled with the  _ tapabalazos _ of his pants, clicking his fingernails against the metal. Then his eyes wandered to Héctor’s suitcase on the floor, and he wondered some more. Perhaps he should sell his things; they must be worth something. And back in that dark alley Héctor still wore his fine charro suit…

Ernesto suddenly straightened and turned towards the door where he thought he had heard a noise. Something faint. Something like a whispered plea for help but was probably just the wind, or a cat crying out in the night. It was nothing. It was just in his head. Héctor was dead...

No.

His heart rate began to pick up at that thought. He wasn’t dead. Not yet.

Could Ernesto really leave him like that? What if Héctor woke up? Could he piece together what happened? He wouldn’t dare suspect Ernesto of doing anything. Right? But what if he woke up and took back Ernesto’s hard-won book and guitar? Or what if he died and Imelda found out and demanded them back?

There was too much at stake. He had already gone this far.

Yet despite his urgency he didn’t leave right away, instead pacing about the room and watching the door and the flickering candle. He changed into something a bit more practical as he concocted a plan. Briefly he considered bringing the body back to the room and waiting until he was truly dead, but he quickly dismissed that. What he needed was to hide the evidence. There was open land along the train tracks, dotted with sparse, sickly-looking conifers and shrubs. No one would think to look there, and he didn’t mind getting his hands a little dirty.

Finally he slipped back into the dark night towards the train station. As he approached he broke into a half-run when he thought—feared—that Héctor was gone. But no, he was still there, sprawled out in the shadow of the building, unmoved. He looked rather pathetic, slumped in the dirt like a man who couldn’t hold his liquor. Which, Ernesto thought darkly, was true.

He was still warm and breathing, and Ernesto couldn’t yet decide if that was a blessing or a curse. How fast did arsenic take? The stories had made it seem so quick and easy—the Inheritor’s Powder, it was called, and the irony was not lost on him. If nothing else, at least it had worked quick enough to keep him off the train. If it had taken any longer Ernesto would have had to convince him some other way to stay back and that would have been a problem. This way, alone in a quiet dark street, it was all rather clean.

Messy, sure, but at least there was no blood on his hands.

“Well amigo,” he said, kneeling beside him. “Suppose this is it.”

No response. Héctor’s eyes remained closed, his long lashes dark against his ashen skin, drool dripping from his open mouth. Perhaps it really was best that he was still alive. Now if anyone asked, he could simply said the poor fellow had had too much to drink, and he was being a good friend and putting him to rest.

It wasn’t even a lie.

This time he could think more clearly and didn’t try to half-drag him like before, but hoisted him over his shoulder, struggling only a little to stand under the new weight before he set off to the deserted land by the train tracks. It wasn’t so hard, but still he groaned under the added strain on his back, sweat trickling beneath his shirt as he gazed about, praying no one would see him.

But it was the dead of night, and no one saw. Once something scurried in the dark brush, otherwise the world seemed empty and still. The only witness were the fading stars.

Héctor still breathed, his hanging head close to his own, and Ernesto grit his teeth and didn’t think about it. Yet he couldn’t help but notice that something was starting to stink. Almost like garlic.

He walked until his view of the train station and the buildings were hidden, and then walked further, and then a little further still until he came to an open space behind a tall thicket of shrubs. Scraping the soil with his heel, he thought it soft enough, and so bent down and set Héctor on the ground, his half-turned face slightly visible even in the darkness.

Ernesto stood up and stretched, cracking his back and catching his breath. As he did so, he found himself gazing down at the broken form of the man before him. His little brother in all but blood.

Somehow, when he wasn’t paying attention, Héctor had become a man. No longer the scrawny kid who idolized him, who would follow him like an obedient dog. He was no longer the nervous, awkward teen who would flush anytime a pretty woman looked his way. At some point, he had grown up.

He had become his own person, someone who chose another path.

And Ernesto had killed him. Was killing him still…

“You were going to abandon me!” he said to the almost-corpse, despising how small he looked, curled in on himself.

“I didn’t… this wasn’t… you made me do this!”

No answer.

Ernesto bit his tongue and turned away. He was there for a reason, and so he dropped to his knees and began to dig. A sturdy branch at hand helped tear into the cold earth, creating a long, shallow pit. It was slow going, harder than he would have expected and he grew more frantic as he could sense the night dwindling.

But in that time he remembered… Héctor still wore that fine charro suit.

The dead don’t need fine clothing. It would be a waste to just leave it. Besides, he wouldn’t be robbing the dead because he wasn’t dead yet. Héctor might understand, they were always short on money, and he was his best friend, after all…

Yet Ernesto didn’t make any move to take it, but only glanced at him every so often as he kept digging. Would taking his clothes be too far? Why should it even matter?

After some time Ernesto paused and sat on the edge, gasping and staring at the immobile shape beside him. At least he wouldn’t need his shoes where he was going. His eyes moved down and lingered on them, beautiful decorated leather that had been sewn and chiseled by Imelda, as Héctor liked to remind him as he polished them with a rag every night.

That raised some new thoughts he didn’t like. What would happen to his wife? To Héctor’s child? It didn’t matter. It was none of his concern. Or perhaps he should write a letter to her with some lie. Would that make her suspicious? Possibly. Probably, knowing that shrewish wife of his. He wouldn’t risk it.

He would need an excuse, though. It was inevitable that one day Imelda would go searching for her husband, but Ernesto would make sure he was never found.

“You always were popular with the girls, in your own odd way,” Ernesto said mildly, turning the thought over in his head. “Maybe you let some scheming  _ puta _ sink her claws into you. Or you fell into opium. You wouldn’t be the first man to fall victim to it. Poor Héctor, wouldn’t even stick around when I was begging for you to stay. Yes… abandoned not only his wife and daughter, but his best friend. You left me. I’ll only be telling her the truth.”

There was no answer and it strangely infuriated him.

But the shoes, at least, he could make use of.

He knelt down beside him and began to undo the shoelaces with shaking fingers, thinking about when they had been so young, when Héctor had been so small, after they had crossed a terrible desert to escape the Federalist army. Ernesto had knelt before him and unbound the rags around his bleeding, blistered feet as Héctor cried into his sleeve. Back when Héctor had looked up to him. Had treated him like family.

A great fury rose up in him, and he yanked them off with more force than necessary. He suddenly wished Héctor would wake up so he could punch him, or strangle him or...

Why did he make him have to do this?

“This is your fault,” Ernesto said through gritted teeth, ignoring the burning tension through him. “I  _ had _ to do this. You were leaving me.”

So close, the stench of garlic was overwhelming, and beneath it something else, something  _ wrong _ . Was this the smell of death? Ernesto’s anger rose, and his hands shook.

Héctor should have known better than to leave. To throw away everything they had. To  _ abandon _ him. They were supposed to be each other family. So much for that.

With the shoes set aside, he cast another considering gaze over the suit, the bow at his neck. It’d be a shame to get such fine cloth dirty. He turned the body a little to his side and pulled off the beautifully embroidered jacket and the silken tie around his neck, and carefully set them aside on top of the shoes.

He looked small and pitiful without them. The pants he left alone, at least for the moment. He would wait a moment for his stomach to settle, that was all. Besides, he wasn’t yet done. There were only had a few hours left before daybreak, he assumed, although the night was still dark as ever.

When he turned back to the widening grave, a faint noise made him pause. It sounded like his name, and he shivered. Maybe it was just the wind…

 

Slowly he turned, but Héctor only lay there on the dirt, still unmoving. Still silent.

Breathing hard through his nose, his eyes never leaving the figure, Ernesto stepped closer. It was already too late. If Héctor was foolish enough to wake up, then he would finish the job. Even if he woke and tried to fight back, Ernesto had always been stronger between the two of them. It wouldn’t be so hard, he would just need to squeeze his neck until he stopped breathing…

For a long minute he watched and contemplated, but nothing happened. It must have been his imagination. Nausea curled in his gut and he choked it down.

“Will you just hurry up and be done, already?” he spat, his mouth very dry.

In the distance he heard a train whistle, a lone sound in the night.  He checked his pocket watch, holding it up and tilting it this way and that, but it no use, the moon having hidden itself long ago. It didn’t really matter. Soon, too soon, people would start waking in the pre-dawn darkness.

He had to hurry.

Time passed, the sky to the east began to lighten little by little, and soon birds began to awaken around him. He worked faster, digging in the stiff soil, hating all of it.

 

Finally he was finished. Gasping and wiping at his brow, he stepped back on shaking legs and gazed down at it: not terribly deep, nor terribly long, yet terrible nonetheless. A gaping black chasm like a mouth without teeth.

He had hoped that when he touched Héctor again, he would finally be cold, or maybe stiff. But no, he still breathed, faint and rancid, with saliva dribbling from his lips and pooling in the dust.

Just in case, he stooped over him, softly shaking his shoulder. “Héctor?” Ernesto whispered.

Nothing.

He was very nearly dead. He had to be. It’s not as if he would actually  _ feel _ it. It was too late to turn back. With a muffled grunt he dragged the too-warm body over and shoved him in, pushing his long legs down to the rest of him so he’d somewhat fit in the cramped space. The body lay there, curled up and quiet, and looked somehow grotesque. Ernesto tried to only think in terms of ‘corpse’ and ‘body’ and ‘it.’ Not his brother. Not his best friend, his partner, his…

But he wasn’t his anymore. Nor anyone’s. Or he wouldn’t be soon. Except… what if he woke up?

The thought made him pause, staring down and trying not to think about it. About Héctor struggling awake in a panic, being crushed, unable to breathe through the dirt filling his mouth, unable to move, trying to scream for help…

No. He wouldn’t wake up. He would be dead soon.

It was too late. He  _ no choice _ .

_ Héctor gave him no other choice! _

Dawn was coming and he couldn’t be found there.

His hands shook wildly, and he couldn’t tear his eyes from the small, huddled form. He had to do this.

He _ had _ to do this.

With a long, low exhale, he gritted his teeth and shoved some of rocky soil into the not-empty pit, covering the body and its white shirt, then his hair and his sallow skin. Black dirt spilled across the closed eyes, flooded into the open mouth.

Terrible sounds came from Ernesto’s own mouth as he continued to fill that terrible chasm. But no sounds, no pleas, came from beneath the ground. He couldn’t see the body anymore, and he piled more on, pressing down once and then jerking his hands back as the soil beneath his hands gave way in a terrible manner.

It was fine. He was dead or soon to be. He wouldn’t wake up.

The thought triggered something painful in him.

_ He would never wake up again _ .

His eyes grew hot and stung as if there was smoke or ash in them, and he brushed the sweat from his brow with his shirt sleeve.

_ It was his own fault _ .

Ernesto’s hands trembled as he smoothed over the edges, spreading out the displaced soil so it wouldn’t look like a grave.

_ Damn him, damn him, damn him! _

There. It was done.

Ernesto painfully pulled himself to his feet as the sky imperceptibly lightened to a cold gray, the fading of the night. Looking down, he felt a sickening sense of accomplishment. It was rather good, he thought, even as he felt his whole self shivering in the cool air.

No one would ever find him. No one would ever know. It would be a secret Ernesto would take to his own grave.

He wiped a hand over his mouth, and when he next licked his lips, he tasted dirt.

It was that taste of gravesoil on his tongue that finally did it, and there beside the soon-to-be grave of his best friend he fell to his hands and knees and retched, throwing up whatever was in his stomach until he was spitting sour bile. Gasping, coughing, he blinked back tears and waited for the spasms of his stomach to stop, sure he could still smell the suffocating stench of garlic and of something  _ rotting _ .

Tears pricked at his eyes as he willfully ignored the sobs escaping his mouth.

He turned his head and looked at the disturbed earth, and reminded himself that Héctor lay beneath it, dying or dead.

He was on his own.

As he walked back to town in the faint light of dawn, he found himself oddly settled, both terrified and certain of the future. He understood now. There could never be any more doubt. He could only trust himself, no one else.

He would do  _ anything _ to seize his moment.

 


End file.
